Written by Susan Bluck

Early on, who cared about the anchor?

What we wanted then was the heady crash of the booming wave,
Sensual pull of the changing tide,
The whitecap,
The glistening dance of the dazzling, sunlit sea,
Exciting mystery of the raging, stormy dark.

Now though,
Rounding in on 60,
I also look beyond.
I see below the surface
The great rusty beauty and majesty
Of anchors:
Their long-standing solitary persistence of being,
Steadfast purpose in holding the line,
Quiet constancy in weathering great depths.
All these things so achingly endear.
And just as I fully feel their steadying weight
With heartbreaking fondness, bounteous admiration…
My dearest old anchors are, one by one, raised up.
Lifting.  Setting sail to other worlds.
I stand on my shore and watch them go.
As they are transported over the distant line,
How quietly they reveal
That I am one.

Submitted by Ravenna Helson

Editor’s Note:  Susan Bluck is a gerontologist at the University of Florida and a member of the Personology Society.  She  has graciously given permission to publish her poem, Anchor in the ShareLetter Newsletter.